


Bleed for Me

by HurtStiles



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Touch, Beating, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Nudity, Pain, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 12:31:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5666128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HurtStiles/pseuds/HurtStiles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas’ hands wrist twisted futilely in the cuffs that seemed quite capable of holding beings a lot stronger and meaner than him.  His back slammed into the wall with force, making the sharp edges of the manacles jab painfully into the small of his back and his arms at the same time.  His head spun.  They’d hit him too many times already.  His body was screaming pain and his thoughts were a scattered mess.</p>
<p>A hard, unforgiving fist slammed into the teen’s ribs for the umpteenth time and Thomas’ head arched back hard against the wall behind him as he cried out.  He tried to curl forward around his hurting middle, but the hands holding his shoulders wouldn’t let him, pinning him firmly in place, ready to take more punishment.  Only he wasn’t ready, he really, really wasn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bleed for Me

**Author's Note:**

> Little one-shot / drabble I did on tumblr a little while ago and thought I'd move over here. There is painfully little Thomas whump out there, and even less Janson / Thomas bad-touch-ery, so this is my tiny contribution. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> This is pretty short but there is violence, nakedness and non-consensual touching and douchery. Please avoid if you need to.

Thomas’ hands wrist twisted futilely in the cuffs that seemed quite capable of holding beings a lot stronger and meaner than him.  His back slammed into the wall with force, making the sharp edges of the manacles jab painfully into the small of his back and his arms at the same time.  His head spun.  They’d hit him too many times already.  His body was screaming pain and his thoughts were a scattered mess.

A hard, unforgiving fist slammed into the teen’s ribs for the umpteenth time and Thomas’ head arched back hard against the wall behind him as he cried out.  He tried to curl forward around his hurting middle, but the hands holding his shoulders wouldn’t let him, pinning him firmly in place, ready to take more punishment.  Only he wasn’t ready, he really, really wasn’t.  

Janson punched him in the gut again and Thomas bit back harshly against a sob.  He wouldn’t give them that satisfaction, not until he couldn’t help it, anyway. Somewhere in his aching, spinning head, he knew that time was probably coming soon. They’d never break him, not in the way they wanted, but his body would give sooner or later.

Someone grabbed his hair and pulled back, making him tilt his chin up.  The hand gave his head a little shake as if to get his attention and it was only then that Thomas realized he had clamped his eyes shut. Tears he couldn’t help leaking from the corners, Thomas blinked his eyes open with wary, sluggish hesitancy.  Part of him wanted to know what was coming next so he could be ready, and part of him just wanted to hide, flee, pass out … whatever would make this stop hurting.

He was having trouble focusing on his captor’s face and his gaze must have looked a little fuzzy, because the man slapped his cheek roughly in that way people did when they were trying to wake someone up.  Thomas cringed, his abused head ringing, the cuts around his mouth and the blossoming bruises beneath his eye reverberating in pain.  

“Come on, Thomas. Just tell me where the others went. I know you know.  It’s there, isn’t it?  Pressing at your mind right now, on the tip of your tongue.  Just _say_ it,” Janson murmured, his cool tone manipulatively persuasive and cajoling.

Thomas blinked, the older man still a little fuzzy around the edges as he leaned into the teen’s personal space, bending a little to be at head level with him. His hand moved up across Thomas’ bruised, heaving stomach, sliding under his shirt and pulling it up his chest a little as fingers trailed carelessly across skin.

“Say it,” Janson murmured, his touch deceptively gentle and yet clearly threatening against the boy’s skin, his breath ghosting across pale, freckled skin and making Thomas shiver. “You know we’ll find out, one way or another. You might as well make it easier on yourself. It doesn’t have to be this hard.”  

Thomas twisted his hurting, swollen lips into something resembling a sneer, trying to ignore the sensation of the other man’s touch on his skin. He knew full well that Janson was _enjoying_ hurting him, and the look in his eyes was suggesting there were other things he might enjoy too. Janson got off on pain and fear. Thomas could only deny him one of those things.  "You think this hard?“ he scoffed, spitting blood. “The _maze_ was hard, the _scorch_ was hard, self important little bureaucrats who wouldn’t last a _day_ in either of those places without an army for backup do not _begin_ to rate.”  

The men holding him shifted and Thomas tightened instinctively, holding onto his defiant glare as he tensed for the expected retaliation.  

Janson punched him in the gut again, _hard._ The action wasn’t a surprise, but the force was.  The older man had clearly been holding back before. He hit him again, and again.  Thomas felt something crack in his ribcage and bright, white-hot pain blossomed through him like someone had shoved a lit torch into his insides.  He cried out involuntarily, knees buckling.  He gasped, choking on a sudden need to vomit as he slid down the wall as much as his captors’ grip allowed, which wasn’t much.  He tried to swallow the rising gorge, then changed tactics and just turned his head towards Janson instead, throwing up all over the man’s shirt.  

Janson took a step back, scowling in distaste and dispassionately watching the boy choke for a minute as Thomas struggled to find some kind of balance between fighting to breathe, throwing up and sobbing in agony.  

Thomas’ lungs felt out of whack and he coughed, the sharp contractions making pain scream through bruised and broken ribs.  His sinus’ and throat burned as he accidentally inhaled his own bile, his throat getting all mixed up about what pathways it was supposed to be using for what substances.  He couldn’t breathe.   _He couldn’t breathe._

His captors were apparently skilled enough to realize when Thomas’ flailing became truly panicked and urgent. “He’s choking, get him down, tilt his head, open up his airway,” Janson said in a swift, all-business tone as he wiped Thomas’ vomit off with a rag.  

Thomas was aware of the men manhandling him about, but he must have grayed out a little then because the next thing he really remembered he was sitting on the floor, strong hands supporting him in a semi-upright position and keeping his head tipped forward so he wouldn’t choke on his own vomit.  

He was still coughing intermittently, so he couldn’t have lost more than a minute or so. Everything hurt _so_ bad.  Thomas felt unwanted tears burning his eyes.  They ran unbidden down his cheeks as he leaned forward, chest hitching and gasping.  He tried to stop, tried to calm himself, but he couldn’t. His body was shaking and there was a quivering edge of panic starting to take hold as the pain became too much.  

Somewhere in the distance he heard Janson’s voice, saying something about cleaning him up.

He gasped as a shock of cold water hit him like a physical blow. One of his captors had turned a hose on him and the forceful, icy spray was painful. He tried to scrabble away from it, but his head was still spinning and there was nowhere to go. He ended up backed into a cement corner, curled into a shivering, gasping ball.

The water shut off, but any sense of relief was short lived. Rough hands grabbed his arms and started stripping off his sopping clothing. Thomas protested and struggled, but a few good blows to his burning ribs and swimming head forced him to crumple in submission as they stripped him.

Janson crouched in front of him, avoiding a puddle of water on the slick floor. “Now, now, we can’t leave you in these wet things, you’ll catch your death,” he said with a smirk, eyes traveling unabashedly across Thomas’ naked body.

Thomas tried to hug himself and retreat, but the hands holding him wouldn’t allow it. They forced him onto his knees with his arms twisted behind him. Dripping, exposed and vulnerable, Thomas shivered with something more than cold. He jerked, Janson’s hand feeling unnaturally warm as it slid easily down his wet chest.

“Such an otherwise perfect specimen,” Janson clucked with mock regret as he traced a deliberate trail down Thomas’ shivering body, fingers gliding past the boy’s navel and down across his abdomen, teasing through his hair. “It’s too bad you’re determined to be such a troublesome and willful failure.”

Janson fondled the captive boy casually and Thomas grit his teeth, color rising in his pale cheeks. The other man was trying to unsettle and intimidate him, so he held Janson’s gaze with blazing hatred, refusing to be cowed, no matter how much he ached to squirm away from that carelessly malicious touch and the dark things it promised.

Shifting his grip to Thomas’ chin, Janson wrenched his head up and back, holding his eyes with malicious intensity. “The others, Thomas. Where are they?”

Thomas’ hurting body shuddered, but his gaze did not waver. “Go to hell.”

Janson’s smile widened. “You know, I was actually hoping you’d say that. Trust me, Thomas, hell will seem like a walk in the park when I’m done with you.”

Janson was the worst kind of liar, but this was one promise Thomas had no trouble believing.  


End file.
